


it's just the end of the world

by queendromeda



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A Teenage Anti-Hero's Guide to Love, Bad Flirting, Communication, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Teenage Dorks, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 12:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15291702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendromeda/pseuds/queendromeda
Summary: "Don't you wish we could just be seventeen?"It should be a simple question, but with Bruce and Selina when are things ever as they should be.Maybe, just this once, they could to be more than what Gotham made them. Or, really, less. Maybe they could be Bruce and Selina, two kids in love, instead of Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle, two people who should have never met. Maybe they can forget who they are — a billionaire and a thief, a CEO and a mobster — and remember who they used to be: stupid and reckless and young.





	it's just the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itzel_Lightwood13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itzel_Lightwood13/gifts).



> The unofficial anthem of this story is Nine in the Afternoon by Panic! at the Disco. This mainly turned out the way it did, because I've been sad and nostalgic, and just projected all of that onto Bruce and Selina. Also, this is set sometime after Bruce's eighteenth birthday, but before Jeremiah showed his hand, kind of the calm before the storm. 
> 
> Itzel, this one is for you. I'm so sorry it took so long to get out. You sent me the prompt well over a month ago, and it's only coming out now, and I'm so, so sorry. I really hope you like it. It's just gratuitous batcat fluff, with an edge of impending doom, so my fingers are crossed.

It started like this:

Selina snuck onto the grounds of Wayne Manor and came in through the window in the study. That's normal. Bruce didn't notice. He was sprawled out on one of the sofa's, flipping through the week's progress reports. His board of directors wasn't happy with him, at the moment — and, really, what else was new?

He looked tired. Beyond tired. Like over the past week he decided that it wasn't enough to only carry the weight of Gotham on his shoulders, he had to add the weight of the world as a whole. It sounded about right.

He's only eighteen. She's only eighteen.

And that's the important thing here, isn't it?

She watched him for a moment. There's no commitment here. Though, really, there's no commitment ever. Not with them. Nothing that's been etched into permanence. Nothing that honestly counts. Only, that doesn't feel right. The thought of it — them — whatever _they_ were, however messy and broken-hearted they became, and no matter how many snow globes broke against Persian rugs, the concept of _them_ falling apart was unthinkable. They meant something. They had to.  

She stood by the curtains. Turned herself into a phantom. Another lonely projection of the wind. Something intangible. It's refreshing. It's disquieting. There's an edge of unease to her watch. A fear, that clawed its way out of her throat into her gums, making her teeth ache and her jaw twitch.

What was she doing here?

She could remember, vaguely, walking through an antique store when she was very young. Her mom —  _Maria_ — had grabbed her roughly by the wrist while they walked through the aisles, and hissed behind a veneer of plum lipstick, " _Y_ _ou can look all you want, but don't ever touch anything_."

Sometimes, she wondered if Bruce, someday, would become something delicate and untouchable to her.

By all accounts, he should have been already.

And yet.

The idea of things going to way they should have if the world operated sanely was unpleasant. He'd be nothing but an uptight, overly-worried, probably friendless trust fund kid and she'd be a nobody pick-pocket or grifter. Definitely friendless. Maybe dead.

When did Bruce Wayne become so important to her? When did she let him become so important to her?

She felt something twist over in her stomach. Feelings, she decided, are awful.  

If she left right then and there, he'd never even know that she'd been there.

She didn't leave.

Instead, she reached out and knocked against the windowpane. Bruce looked over, moving, probably, too sedately considering there was an intruder in his house. It really shouldn't have been endearing.

"Oh, Romeo, Romeo," she said, as she pushed her way into the room, not sure why she was saying what she was saying, but in too deep to stop. "Wherefore art thou, Romeo?"

And it would just be neat if a bolt of lightning could have stuck her down. Right then.

Bruce shuffled his papers together and dropped them onto the coffee table in front of him. He, like a complete idiot, lounged back against the couch, looking at her in a way that she _knew_ meant he was hiding a smile because his mouth was too pinched and his eyes were too happy, and her stomach twisted again and it was all so stupid.

Horrifically, she could feel herself making the same not-smile.

 _God_.

She had a reputation to upkeep.

 

 

 

She wandered over to his desk, picking up paperweights and twirling fountain pens, and avoided looking at him for fear of something stupid falling out of her mouth. Again.

Or, worse, for fear of inciting an argument. She did that on purpose sometimes. It was a catharsis, almost. She knew things would work out between them. They had to. There was no other option. And if they didn't work things out, then, well, it was bound to happen, wasn't it? She's not exactly the warm and cuddly type. People don't like her. She's never even had to work hard at pushing them away. They all do it on their own.

Except for Bruce.

They've fought. A lot. But they always come back together. Like magnets—

Like he's her true north.

The thought alone makes her want to punch someone. Primarily herself.

She tossed a paperweight in the air and pursed her lips. "Do you ever, I don't know, wish you could just be seventeen?"

"I was seventeen. It was pretty awful."

He said it casually enough, but there's something in it that felt guarded. It makes her tense. She didn't need the reminder. She remembered it vividly. Bruce, his eyes fever-bright and blurred, too empty for comfort, smelling like he'd rolled around in a vat of vodka, surrounded by pretty, delicate, bird-like girls. She remembered the way her nails left half-crescents in her palm and the confusing haze of _why-why-why_ that ran through her head, and the memories make her sharper than she should be, probably.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't exactly a dream for me, either." She moved the paperweight into her other hand, and added before she could stop herself, "And I didn't even have booze to drown my sorrows in."

That wasn't strictly true, but it didn't really matter.

What mattered is the way her stomach turned after she said it. Regret flooded through her leaving her nauseous, her stomach rolling in anxiety. An ugly taste filled her mouth. She never did have enough practice in tempering her cruelty.

Bruce was looking at her, she could feel it heavy across her face. Hurt. Accusatory. "Selina—"

"I didn't mean that," she interrupted, tilting her head to regard the area around him. She refused to focus on him. If she did then she'd have to see the 'kicked puppy' expression on his face and she already felt bad enough without it. She curled her hand around the paperweight. It was cool to the touch. "I didn't mean that. I just—"

She cut herself off with a sigh.

Bruce didn't say anything.

She's bad at this — caring, trying. She's not an open person or even a nice one. She's always been barbed. Hard-hearted. A little girl with talons instead of nails and fangs instead of teeth, because the world is not a kind place and never has been.  

With Bruce, who has tragedy strung through his blood just like her, everything she felt ends up amplified. Sometimes she just wanted to be soft with him. Most times she wanted to scream at him _how do you do it? how do you let the world hurt you again and again and again, and stay so good?_ It's not jealousy, she told herself, but morbid fascination.

Is that the truth?

It wasn't like it mattered. She's a Siren now. She didn't need to deal with things like honesty.

She turned the paperweight over in her hand.

She tried again. "I'm not like you. I'm bad at — this. Us."

"I think you do alright."

"Thanks." It's more sardonic than she meant it to be, but that's always the case with her, isn't it? "But it's not, I don't know, _easy_ for me. I'm not a good person."

 _That_ wasn't supposed to slip out. That belonged buried in the space between her ribs, suspended in quiet solitude like the rest of her bruised and broken parts. Something in the air wavered, bending between them, crackling like the moments before a lightning strike.

She could feel, rather than see Bruce's frown. A sharp turn of his mouth. Disappointment palpable. "You shouldn't say things like that. You're a good person. Better than most."

"Not better than you."

And that felt important to say. She needed the distinction to be there, acknowledged.

Bruce, per usual, didn't follow the plan she's laid out. He sounded halfway angry. Hollowed. Gutted, maybe. His tone hurt. It dragged over her like nails on a chalkboard. "Really? Which one of us turned into a complete asshole and pushed everyone he cared about away to party?"

"That's not—"

"We all have shit, Selina." And, now, there was nothing halfway about his anger. It was rolling off of him, uncoiling slowly. "You're a good person. If you weren't you wouldn't worry so much about not being one."

She set the paperweight down, turning around to look over Bruce's desk. Looking at him would be too much. Instead, she let his words settle behind her breastbone. He was angry. Not at her, but for her, and she shouldn't enjoy the feeling of inducing such a thing, but she does. She felt drunk on it. Warm and soothed. Her heart beat a little faster. It was pathetic, really.

Running her hands along the lacquered desk, she asked, "Do you ever feel like you're missing out?"

Bruce let the question stand for a moment. He doesn't mention the shift in conversation. She's stupidly grateful. "I guess it depends on the context."

"We're adults now." She doesn't tag on the obligatory ' _can you believe it_?' Neither of them had been kids in a long time. But—

He's only eighteen. She's only eighteen.

And that's the most important thing here, isn't it?

Bruce caught on quickly, snorting in derision. "Coming of age in Gotham City. Lucky us."

Gotham didn't raise its children — all of them orphans or street rats or broken, twisted things — it ruined them. There's something in Gotham kids that's especially vicious. Something that's necessary for survival. There's something about the city that turned them all half-savage.

She knew it. Bruce knew it. Countless other orphans and street rats and broken, twisted things knew it.

It's tragic.

It's life.

And she hates it. And that made her desperate. "Don't you wish we could just be seventeen?"

There's silence after her question. It's a heavy and melancholic thing to ask. It shouldn't be, but it is, and, now that she's pushed it into being, now that she knows Bruce understands what she means, the silence drapes itself over her oppressively.

"Yeah," Bruce said, his voice wavering a bit. "Yeah. I wish we could just be seventeen."

 

 

 

(she'd been out with Barbara and Tabitha on Siren business. back before Barbara's power trip and before Tabitha left — or, really, was thrown out — and before Jerome Valeska escaped the asylum to terrorize the city for the third time. things were duller. not dull, because nothing in Gotham could ever be dull, but muted, at least. things felt calmer. less collapsible.

that was nice.

they'd been walking back from a meeting. the sun was still out, barely, working its way down the rapidly purpling sky. they turned a corner and, in the middle of the street, with, apparently, no cares in the world, a group of kids around Selina's age were dancing. top 40 songs were blaring from out of someone's speaker. it was obnoxious. tasteless. she could still remember the way Tabitha scoffed and Barbara's muttered _well Tabby aren't you glad the stray you picked up isn't so… cliché?_

Tabitha had snorted at that, and nudged Selina with her elbow, sharing a look with her that came close to conspiring. _some kids are more mature than others. you wouldn't know anything about that, would you Barbara?_

that was nice too.

she liked the banter between them. it was comfortable. they made everything feel less tumultuous, more stable and she liked that. craved it, really.

but.

watching the kids in the street as they giggled and twirled and sipped on lukewarm beer, she felt something shudder in her chest. they made her want to turn their music off and demand _do you know where you are? do you know what this city does to kids? how are you so happy? how are you so carefree? how? how? how? HOW?_

she didn't, of course.

the memory stuck with her, though. digging its way under her skin. it mocked her)

 

 

 

Bruce was pacing.

She took his spot on the sofa, pretending that she didn't curl into the warmth he left and started drumming her fingers against the upholstery. There was something frenzied in the air, now. Something unstoppered and too honest, but she felt light as a feather, or, at the very least, lighter than she had since the weight of misplaced nostalgia settled itself over her heart.

Bruce clapped his hands together, pivoting on his heel to look at her. He radiated kinetic energy, from his scattered expression to his fingers twisting in and out of each other as he gathered himself. It shouldn't have been charming.

"Let's go be seventeen for a night," he said. He tried really hard for it to come across as non-committal, but there's something about the glint in his eye that catches her, like fish hooks in her head.

She doesn't smile, but it's a close call.

He was ridiculous.

"I didn't know you could time travel, Bruce. Seems like a weird thing to keep hidden."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm serious. Let's go out and be stupid, irresponsible kids. The cities not falling apart and no one needs us right now. Perfect timing."

She opened her mouth to rebuke, sarcasm resting on the tip of her tongue, a laugh stuck somewhere high in her throat, but—

But she found that she didn't want to say no to him. The idea is simple. Silly, really. And, despite that, it's just the kind of thing she'd been looking for. She _wants_ to be reckless and dumb, if only for a night. She wants to be just another teenage girl, dancing and laughing and sipping on shitty, lukewarm beer with her — with Bruce, who was, to her at least, as undefinable as ever.

It's, honestly, the most frivolous and stupid thing she'd ever wanted, and that's counting her useless interest in diamonds and rubies and other precious stones. Besides, Tabitha would probably be disappointed if she ever found out she had even considered doing something like Bruce was suggesting. Her answer is a no-brainer.

"Alright."

"Alright?" he repeated, smiling like an idiot. His hands shoved into his pockets as he leaned against the wall opposite of her like he's posing for some glossy magazine cover. He looked good. It made her brain itch. Traitorously, she could feel a blush staining its way up her neck.

She forced back a smile, trying to appear no-nonsense, blasé, but her voice still quivered with the laugh that she hadn't been able to force down. "Don't make me regret this."

Bruce laughed, his face lighting up in a way she didn't know she missed. He was too solemn. She wished he would laugh more. She also wished, though she made sure to keep this wish close to her heart, that she could bottle up the sound of his laughter. Anything to stay in this moment a little longer.

For the first time, in a long while, she doesn't want to run away.

That was nice.

 

 

 

They snuck out of Wayne Manor with practiced ease — and Bruce _really_ needed to update his security — weaving through the gardens and over the stone wall with no trouble, and made their way to the car she'd left parked on the edge of the Wayne's winding driveway. She traded the long walk through the woodland that separated Bruce from the hustle and bustle of the city for a borrowed Nissan Altima. For some reason, that made her stomach twist in distaste.

She drove until Bruce told her to stop, leaving them somewhere that was far enough away from Siren territory that she let herself relax. Incrementally, at least. The area was familiar in a hazy, half-forgotten way, and, with a pang, she realized that she'd heard from the grapevine that Firefly was holed up somewhere around them. She elected to ignore that possibility. She didn't like to think about Bridgit.

They walked silently through the back streets of Gotham, led by Bruce and his constant need to uphold an air of mystery. He ended up stopping outside of an unassuming door, the olive paint peeling away from it in strips, casting an all-around dismal image.

"What are we doing here?" she whispered, hanging back and looking out on the narrow street.

"What do you think?"

Then he knocked.

It took a long moment, but the door was eventually yanked open revealing a thin, spindly man, probably only a few years older than they were. He looked sleazy, with his yellow-tinted Ray-Ban's and knock-off fur coat, but his face lit up when he saw Bruce, and, she noticed sharply, he kept his hand away from his waistband, where he was probably keeping his gun.

"Bruce!" he said loudly, his voice echoing off of the empty street. "And friend," he added, with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, after noticing her. "What can I do for you, my man?"

"Lance," Bruce said, with much less enthusiasm. "I'm here for the usual."

He hummed. "Funny. Last time I saw Tommy he said you were going cold turkey. You running with someone new?"

"If I was, anyone would be better than Tommy," Bruce said.

"Fair point," Lance laughed. "I'll go get your stuff. You mind if it's not cold?"

"Couldn't really care one way or another."

Lance disappeared back into his house a moment later, and she turned to shoot him an unimpressed look. "You're a billionaire."

"Thanks for the reminder."

She resisted the urge to tug on her hair. "You could go into any liquor store in Gotham and the owners wouldn't say a thing. Why buy from some wannabe pimp?"

"Because," he said, rolling his shoulders back with a yawn. "Tonight we're dumb teenagers. And Lance's clientele is exclusively dumb teenagers. I figured we should play the part."

He was the most frustrating person she'd ever met.

Absolutely ridiculous.

The shitty Bud Ice they'd get probably wouldn't even be worth the hassle.

She should just cut her losses and leave while she still had the chance.

 

 

 

(spoiler alert: she didn't)

 

 

 

They end up on a rooftop. The building is industrial. Abandoned and falling apart and, standing on the edge, looking out on the city, she could feel something settle across her. An understanding. A revelation. This is where they'll always end up. This is where they belong. To the night, to the dark smog of Gotham, to the cold sting of fresh air on exposed skin, to the live-wire of emotions pooling out of her stupidly, spilling out and over.

Or, maybe, she's being too in her head about this — _them_.

That's probably it.

She took a deep breath. The cold was biting and she relished in the numbness it brought, her eyes sliding closed as she let herself be. For a moment, at least.

She wouldn't mind if this is what was in store for them. A lifetime of clandestine meetings. A lifetime of rooftop waltzes. It was almost romantic if she squinted her eyes. Not that she cared about romance. She didn't. Still, something bitter was rising in the back of her mouth at the thought. She didn't know why. Or maybe, secretly, she did.

Bruce settled beside her. His presence cut through the cold, nearly as effective as a space heater. He's always so warm. It radiated away from him. The last few times she'd seen him he'd been so grave. There was a new resoluteness to him that she hadn't seen before, but it made him seem sturdier, rougher maybe. That set her on edge. She was used to his softness, his improbable gentleness. She was used to thinking that no person had any business being as kind as he was. She didn't know what to think about the new, harsher Bruce. She didn't _want_ to think about it, really.

Sometimes, it turned out, she didn't like to think the worst of people.

Then—

He grabbed her hand. Everything slotted back into place.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice nearly a whisper against the wind. Any break in the quiet between them, at that moment, on that rooftop, would have been splintering.

"Always," she said.

 

 

 

They weren't drunk.

They were buzzed. Barely. Maybe slowly edging towards tipsy, but _not_ drunk. She was convinced there was a placebo effect to the whole thing. There was an anticipation to it. A knowledge that they _could_ be on their way to getting wasted — if they were drinking anything heavier than Bud Ice, at least — and, because of that knowledge, they acted accordingly. It was the only acceptable explanation, so it was the one she went with.

She sighed, stretching her legs out in front of her and lying back, ignoring the way her shoulders dug into the concrete. Bruce was sitting up next to her. Their legs were pressed together, and, for the last few minutes, he'd been playing with her hair, his fingers scrapping pleasantly against her scalp. It was nice. She liked the quietness they harvested between themselves. A shared melancholy.

But she could feel something giddy building up in her chest, waiting to be let free, like a balloon waiting to pop, and after a short deliberation decided _why not_.

She twisted onto her side and grabbed onto Bruce's leg to get his attention. "Hey," she said, waiting until he was fully focused on her before continuing. "Please tell me you know how to defuse a bomb."

"What?" he laughed, bemused. The corners of his eyes were crinkling up. And, _God_ , she really hated him.

Still, she carried on, feeling something warm bloom inside her chest. She gestured widely with her hands, nearly smacking him in the face in her excitement. "Because — Because you're the bomb. Get it? Bruce. Do you — Do you get it?"

It was incredibly important that he understood.

He laughed. And then laughed some more. He laughed until he was bent over, gasping for air. He laughed until his ribs had to have started hurting. "That was terrible," he managed to get out, wheezing a bit, looking at her with something that was horribly soft in his eyes.

She swatted him on the leg. "Shut up!"

"It didn't even make sense."

She sniffed. "It was charming."

"Maybe a little bit. Somewhere in there." He was still smiling like an idiot, but she didn't think she could really complain about it because she was also. After a few moments had passed, and he settled again, he asked, "Hey, Selina?"

She looked up at him.

"Did it hurt?"

"Did what hurt?"

Bruce's smile widened as he clarified for her. "When you fell from heaven. Did it hurt?"

She groaned, but the blush gave her away.

He was ridiculous.

But she was kind of, maybe, _secretly_ , starting to love it.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr @/ivvpepper.


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